


I Took My Communion Into The Soft Skin Of Your Thighs

by Nyxierose



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 08:42:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3202910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyxierose/pseuds/Nyxierose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there are many forms of worship (and some of them involve minimal clothing and skin on skin).</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Took My Communion Into The Soft Skin Of Your Thighs

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a poem called "Modern Rituals" that's been making the rounds on Tumblr.

She takes him into her bed on what will turn out to be the coldest night of that first winter, the night after he tries once again to accidentally take his own life. This time, she doesn't fault him as much as she has every other time he's taken a greater risk than anyone else. This, she understands. The lake did look frozen, and perhaps the ice could've supported a smaller person, but neither of those details were apparent until it broke beneath him and… well, that's all anyone's willing to tell her on the matter. It's all she needs to know.

The others present bring him to medical, to her, where he belongs. She does not say this. She does follow protocol. She has seen most of his skin before, at various times under completely respectable circumstances, but every scrap of clothing needs to be removed as quickly as possible lest any of it trap the cold against him. She moves cautiously, eyes darting, reminding herself with every little shift of her hands that the goal is to make sure her co-leader doesn't freeze to death. Even compared to his other accidental-suicide attempts, and there has been quite a range these last six months, that would be a bad way to go.

His eyes remain locked on her, but the rest of him is still and she's thankful for it. By now, they've developed a routine in the aftermath of his little adventures. She works in silence; he explains himself once bandages are tied and her fear turns to anger. But this time, she doesn't need to know. This time, she drapes a blanket over him and waits for someone else to bring dry clothes from his tent and that will be enough for both of them. This time… no, this time is different, this time she's actually _doing_ something.

She watches him dress - pretends she doesn't, but her eyes work all too well and she takes in every detail she can. He moves slowly, and she's sure he knows damn well what she's doing. Privacy isn't something either of them has been able to afford in a long time, but the lingering glances and the way their eyes so often consume each other are something else, deeper, dark and perhaps even terrifying. Something real.

He starts to leave and she reaches out at the last second, fingers wrapping around his wrist. His skin is still too cold, she notes - perfect. "You shouldn't be alone tonight," she says, the same way she always does when he is brought to her in the aftermath of one of his attempted sacrifices. This time, she hopes he'll listen. "Your body, it isn't… having another person beside you might keep you alive."

He nods, shaking free of her just long enough to catch her hand in his. "Yours or mine?"

They both know the answer without voicing it. His tent is on the fringes of the camp; hers, in the heart. The walk will be good for them, the silence a welcome prelude to how they both know this will end. They've been dancing around each other for months, almost waiting for something like this, and now the perfect opportunity is right in their grasp. There is nothing else in the world, only them, only this.

As soon as they are beneath canvas instead of starlight, she kisses him. Hard and wanting, rolling her hips against his, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of his pants and the sooner this happens, the more satisfying it will be for both of them. He growls into her mouth, sinks his teeth into her lower lip, and then… all of a sudden, backs away.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she hisses.

"What you deserve," he replies softly.

For a heartbeat, she worries, but then his lips meet her skin again and she is unafraid. He places feather-light kisses all over her face, gentle like she knows she shouldn't be surprised by, and the look in his eyes is almost reverent. Whatever the hell he thinks he's doing, she's all in.

His arm slips around her waist, behind her, and he lays her down on what passes for a bed. She'll feel this in the morning, painful tension in her back, but right now she doesn't notice or mind. He kisses her again, properly, hovering over her. "Let me."

He undresses her slowly. First her jacket, then her shirt - she arches upward for a heartbeat to make it easier, but if he wants her horizontal as much as possible, she's not complaining. He trails kisses across her collarbone, underneath her bra, over her stomach, breathing her name after every press of skin. She closes her eyes, forces herself to remain completely still and let this happen. For months, the better part of a year, her nicest dreams have ended like this. The reality, she decides, is so much better.

He takes too long carefully undoing her boots, longer still reaching up and pushing her pants past her hips, and while she'll claim that her foot making contact with his abdomen was accidental, he still has to pause a moment after that little maneuver. "Get on with it," she hisses. He complies.

He runs his fingers over her underwear, lightest pressure yet still enough to make her arch her back again. Then little kisses on her thighs, not quite where she wants him but so very close. He's thought about this too, maybe even more than she has. "Abby," he breathes against her core, saying her name like a prayer.

"Too much fabric," she mutters, trying not to laugh.

He responds but not quite in the way she wants, reaching up and slowly teasingly unhooking her bra. As soon as the offending garment is thrown aside, he lavishes kisses on the sweet smooth skin of her breasts, touching and kneading, sucking at her nipples while she makes breathy desperate noises. Still, the heat in her core goes ignored.

"My interesting bits are lower," she hisses.

He looks up at her as if brutally offended. "All of you is interesting, my darling," he says, arching up and kissing her. "I'm doing this for you. It's all for you."

She gently kicks him again. "Then do what I want."

The man is a goddamn tease. She should've known that from the very moment she realized she found him attractive, but she's learning it the hard way now. Her underwear is soaked through, but he leaves it there for a little while longer, kissing every little bit of fabric-covered flesh and then finally, finally positioning himself just right between her open thighs. He sucks through the fabric, the sensations dulled a bit but still enough to make her bliss out. God, he's good.

When she focuses again, that one last sensory inhibitor is gone but he's still there, lapping up her wetness and gently trying to poke his tongue into her hole. As he realizes she's come down, his efforts focus once more, again using his mouth alone to bring her to the edge. The fact that she is multi-orgasmic is perhaps a given, but it's not something she's ever really played with before. Rather nice, she decides as her second takes her. Rather nice indeed.

Her third, he nips at her inner thighs while his fingers do figure-eights across her clit and pump in and out of her. This time, she screams his name halfway between a prayer and a curse and she's not sure she cares if anyone else is around to hear.

He would offer a fourth, she has no question of that, but she leans forward and pulls him back to her level before he can try. "Whatever fucked-up idea of penance you think this is, you've done enough for me." She reaches out, finding him still fully clothed and straining against his pants. Why he insists on wearing things that fit like a second skin, she hopes to never find out, but right now it simply can't be pleasant for him. "Clothes off, cock in me. Got it?"

He obliges, surprisingly quick at shedding his own garments, and it's barely a minute before he's straddling her. "Are you absolutely sure?"

"Shut up and fuck me."

He does. She clenches around him, enjoying the sensation. It's been too long - her entire widowhood has been damningly celibate - but oh what a way to change that. He nips at her neck, her collarbone, her breasts again. She breathes out, pulls his head up, presses her lips to his and lingers until she remembers to breathe again. He finishes within her. She doesn't quite have a fourth, but she gets damn close and that's enough.

"So that was…"

"The least I could do," he breathes, shifting onto his back beside her.

"Shut up," she mutters, resting her head on his chest. "Took us long enough."

"Guess it did," he says, reaching down and pulling a blanket over their bodies. "Worth it."

"Very worth it."

 


End file.
